


Timeless

by HallsofStone2941



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Multi, thranduil-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-03
Updated: 2015-06-03
Packaged: 2018-04-02 15:33:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4065178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HallsofStone2941/pseuds/HallsofStone2941
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil reflects on the lifetime of Elves and the double-edged sword that is time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Timeless

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, this is why I like barduil - Elf that hasn't cared for centuries then learns to love again thanks to a hooman? Count me in (it's more introspective and less active than that, but this is Thranduil we're talking about. He's ANCIENT)

It certainly was a strange thing, time. It the times Before, when the World was new and his people roamed the lands that are no more, it had seemed...irrelevant. A thing. Something that merely existed with no importance, like the fluttering bird as it passed him by. He laughed at the Men with their time tables and their star charts; he raise his brow at the passing of the Sun and the Moon, blurry and fleeting.

And then...and then he met _her_. And time was still as swift as before, but it held new taste. They had time, all of it, eternity to pass. It became present and real, the pulse beneath his skin and the rushing of the water that marked it. Precious and beloved, because it gave to him what he wanted: forever with _her_.

He learned that time was truly forever, truly unstoppable. It moved swiftly, relentlessly, even as he knelt before the gates of Angmar and wished only that it would stop. That he could have the...the _time_ to repair.

Ever on, it flowed.

It was bitter, tainted, taunting him with its endless road. He should have faded, but one thing kept him bound, made him _be_. It anchored him, drowned him, and the troubles of the world still crept into his home, interrupted his grief. He banished them with a wave of his hand, closed them off as they beat on his doors, and stared into the distance, hoping to see the end. 

“A hundred years is a mere blink in the life of an Elf.”

Yes, one, small, flighty blink. A flashing second in the agony of eternity. Then did he understand the Gift of Men, to flee the weary world and take refuge in the arms of loved ones long gone.

More war. More death. He clung to the tether of a faded memory, felt his heart beat fast once more, felt his voice rise above the apathetic derision that had plagued him for centuries and answer the fight.

Watched the dust settle and the soldiers mourn, the Dwarves bearing their king into the recesses of the Mountain and returning his prize as their eyes died.

He watched three children embrace a Man, likely their father. Watched that same Man kneel beneath a crown. Wondered where his wife was.

He stayed. Offered medicines and healing. Led the parties that brought food and blankets to the needy Men of the Lake. Carried his favorite wine to the restored doors of Dale’s new King’s quarters, and refilled both their goblets as needed.

At first, he wasn’t sure what drew him to Lord Bard. But he would sit and watch as the Man welcomed his eldest daughter home; how he ruffled the hair of his son, and kissed his daughter on the forehead. The affection that Bard showed invoked an intensity in himself that he had not felt in nearly an Age. For Bard to have lost so much and still held so much care, not only for his children, but for his people, reminded the Elven King of a time when his realm was still Greenwood the Great, and filled with the laughter and light of his greatest love.

And the visits were more frequent, and the blackened rock in his chest grew warm. It never became the sparking bonfire for his wife, but subsisted at a dull glow, the embers of the hearth that are steady and safe. At times it was so bright that he felt as though the heat would send him soaring to the clouds. It terrified him, and he fled for months, unsure if he would return.

But always, he came back. There was no gaping chasm, nor endless summer breeze. Each rustle of the leaves threatened to blow them off their perch, falling to the ground and turning brown with death. Dread filled his heart each time the sun set, and even more so when it rose; the passing of another short day. How many left before the fire flickered out? How many until Bard received his Gift? 

The seasons changed. The children aged. They were never comfortable with “Dad”, but somehow “Uncle” became the norm. The eldest travelled south, the son prepared for kingship. The youngest, his favorite by far, demanded stories until she was sixteen, then healing lessons until she was twenty-five. There was so much more he could teach her, if only…

The Lord of Dale’s hair turned silver. The moustache became a beard. The Elf never knew when either happened, couldn’t give the precise year even though he’d counted the seconds for decades. He could measure it in blinks, perhaps. One tenth of a blink, and the beard grew in. Another tenth, and silver outweighed dark brown.

Less than half a blink in all, and the horns of Dale echo mournfully in the valley. The people around him - dirty, lined, haggard even at their most resplendent, dull next to the Elf King’s immortal shine, dimmed though it is by loss - grieve and celebrate as one; the death of one king, and the crowning of another.

He leaves for the last time. Doesn’t look back. The darkness of Mirkwood stretches imposingly above him, but his gaze is unfocused on the feet carrying him into the welcoming darkness. A weariness settles in his bones, a weight that shouldn’t be there. His legs ache with it; with the grief of millennia from which most Elves would die. It drags him down to the forest floor, bent forward and kneeling, his raiment falling around him with the rippling grace of the Eldar: nothing more than a remnant of the Elf King past.

He covers his face with his hands, and lets the darkness descend.

**Author's Note:**

> You know what I thought to myself a few weeks ago? "I haven't written angst in a while. Guess I should remedy that."
> 
> Haha.
> 
> You can also read that ending however you want: death or grief. I couldn't decide which one I liked more.


End file.
